I like this poem

Nursing Finn

Six times a day
for the past ten months,
in the rocker, on the sofa,
in lawnchairs on the porch,
wedged between two businessmen
on a flight to San Jose, cramped in the cab
of my father-in-law's truck, by the river, in a mall,
at the edges of festivals and moies,
we have settled in, Finn and I, his cheeks fluting
like a small bellows at a great fire, his eyes fluttering
like the most ephemeral of moths.
If I practiced the flute so often, I would be good.
If my garden received such attention, it would fruit
like the arbors of Catherine the Great, where her pensive
son Pavlosk wandered for hours. If my breath stayed so steady,
my body so still and soft, and if I, and everyone else
gave life so freely day after day, would there be
a single problem in the world?

By Leigh Hancock

~ Nicole